POEMS. A PROLOGUE, Written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Roman Knight, whom Cæsar forced upon the stage. Preserved by Macrobius.* WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION; A TALE SECLUDED from domestic strife Such pleasures, unallay'd with care, *This translation was first printed in one of our author's carliest works. "The Present State of Learning in Europe," 12mo. 1759; but was omitted in the second edition, which appeared in 1774. This and the following pocm were published by Dr. Gold. smith in his volume of Esays, which appeared in 1765. Or Flavia been content to stop Need we expose to vulgar sight The honey-moon like lightning flew, Skill'd in no other arts was she, 'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace, Thus as her faults each day were known, He thinks her features coarser grown; How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes! Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Poor madam now condemn'd to hack A NEW SIMILE IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. LONG had I sought in vain to find A likeness for the scribbling kind: The modern scribbling kind, who write, In wit, and sense, and nature's spite: Till reading, I forget what day on, A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, I think I met with something there To suit my purpose to a hair. But let us not proceed too furious, Imprimis, Pray observe his hat, In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air: And here my simile unites, For in the modern poet's flights, I'm sure it may be justly said, Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand, Though ne'er so much awake before, With this he drives men's souls to hell. Now to apply, begin we then ;- And here my simile almost tript, DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER. WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane; The morn was cold, he views with keen desire With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimneyboard; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, THE HERMIT. A BALLAD. The following letter, addressed to the Printer of he St. James's Chronicle, appeared in that paper in June, 1767. SIR, As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels because I thought the book was a good one, and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these •The Friar of Orders Gray. "Reliq. of Anc. Poetry," vol. I. book 2. No. 18. things as trifles at best) told me with his usual goodhumour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approv ed it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing; and, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature. I am, Sir, Yours, etc. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Note. On the subject of the preceding letter, the reader is desired to consult "The Life of Dr. Goldsmith," ," under the year 1765. THE HERMIT; A BALLAD "TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, "For here forlorn and lost I tread, "Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. "Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still; And though my portion is but scant, My blessing and repose. "No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them: "But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong; Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heaven descends, No stores beneath its humble thatch And now, when busy crowds retire And gaily press'd, and smiled; The lingering hours beguiled. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger's woe; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answering care opprest; "From better habitations spurn'd, "Alas! the joys that fortune brings, And those who prize the paltry things, "For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex," he said; But while he spoke, a rising blush Surprised he sees new beauties rise, Whom love has taught to stray; "My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only me. "To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came; Who praised me for imparted charms, And felt, or feign'd a flame. "Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. "In humble, simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he; "And when, beside me in the dale, "The blossom opening to the day, To emulate his mind. "The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to me! Their constancy was mine. "For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain: "Till quite dejected with my scorn, And sought a solitude forlorn, "But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay; I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. "And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I." "Forbid it, Heaven!" the Hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wondering fair one turn'd to chide'Twas Edwin's self that press'd. "Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Restored to love and thee. "Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign: And shall we never, never part, My life my all that's mine? "No, never from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too." The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. That show'd the rogues they lied: STANZAS ON WOMAN. WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charms can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.* GOOD people all of every sort, Give ear unto my song, In Islington there was a man, Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, This dog and man at first were friends; The wond'ring neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. DEAR SIR, I AM sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedication; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you decline giving with your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed to a man, who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscurity, with an income of forty pounds a-year. I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of You have entered upon a your humble choice. sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are but few; while you have left the field of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations; but in a country verging to the extremes of refinement, painting and music come This, and the following poem, appeared in "The Vicar of in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a Wakefield," which was published in the year 1765. less laborious entertainment, they at first rival |